


warship to port

by redluxite (wordstruck)



Series: 00Sheith [1]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: (mildly pining), Agent!Shiro, Alternate Universe - James Bond Fusion, Canon-Typical Violence, Flirting, James Bond AU, M/M, Pining Shiro (Voltron), Pre-Slash, Quartermaster!Keith, implied/referenced trauma, moderate descriptions of violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-15
Updated: 2019-05-15
Packaged: 2020-03-05 23:11:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18838705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordstruck/pseuds/redluxite
Summary: “Down and under, Agent Shirogane,” Keith says dryly, hitting the last of the commands. In another country, Shiro obediently, trustingly rolls underneath a descending slab of titanium alloy and escapes as the factory burns behind him. Keith gives a satisfied smile, and takes a sip of coffee.“I thought I said,” Shiro says, as he shoots another man down, “to call me Shiro.”





	warship to port

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lionescence](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lionescence/gifts).



> Written as a "request" by [@lionescence](https://twitter.com/lionescence)! His prompt was a James Bond/00Q AU of Sheith with Shiro as the Double-0 agent and Keith as the Quartermaster 👀 And I, as the massive 00Q sucker that I still am in 2019, duly obliged.
> 
> Fic borrows heavily from plot points of Skyfall, but you don't need to have seen the movie or know too much of the Bond!verse to read ^__^ Ofc if you also like 00Q, you'll appreciate it more XD 
> 
> Mostly edited, but any errors will be fixed in retrospect. Hopefully I get to write more of this AU because hey, more Shiro in suits and Keith in glasses. Title references the "bloody big ship" exchange in Skyfall.
> 
> Enjoy!

* * *

 

 

 

Shiro doesn’t know why he always expects the Garrison to remain unchanging.

It comes with the presumed solidity of the institution, he supposes. Shiro’s always thought that empires would rise and fall, but the Garrison would stand undaunted, continuing on in its lofty vocation. But a year after the Kerberos incident – a year of therapy, physical and otherwise; a year away from service, away from anything in the Garrison; a year spent recovering – a year after, much is different. Not so much that things are unrecognizable, but enough to shake Shiro a little, leave him feeling a little off-kilter.

There’s new management, for one.

“Welcome back, Agent 007,” Matt says with a grin. He holds the elevator open for Shiro, suffering the friendly shove that Shiro gives as he enters.

“It’s not official yet, Matt,” he points out good-naturedly. Matt just rolls his eyes.

“Please,” he huffs. “They’d be stupid not to take you back. You’re still one of the best agents we’ve got.”

“ _Was,_ ” Shiro corrects with a small smile, although he’s a little less good-natured this time around. It’s easy for Matt to be confident in him; less so for Shiro to be confident in himself. He knows he’s still good enough for the job, knows he’s kept in shape and his recovery has gone well, but there’s always that small sense of doubt.

(A year is a long time, after all. And it isn’t just the Garrison that’s changed– Shiro has, too. From the scar over his nose, to the new white of his hair, to the scar pattern on his right arm, Shiro is also different.)

Matt looks at him sideways for a moment, then huffs a little sigh. “When you pass all your tests again,” he says, then mutters _with flying colors_ under his breath. Shiro elbows him in the side. Matt steps on his foot.

“ _Anyway,_ ” he repeats through gritted teeth as the elevator stops at the administrative floor. “ _When_ you pass all your tests again, because you will, I officially get to throw one of my shiny new notebooks at you.”

This time it’s Shiro’s turn to roll his eyes, but he can’t quite hide his grin either. “Nice to see you again, too, Matt,” he deadpans as they exit the elevator together. His friend winks at him, then leads the way down the hall.

It’ll take some getting used to, seeing Matt up here in the stuffy halls of administration rather than down in ‘the pit’, coordinating field agents on missions or compiling information. Shiro had always half-thought Matt would someday be quartermaster, although his friend has always insisted he’d ‘rather stay fifty feet away from the job’.

(Not that being assistant to the head of the Garrison is somehow _less_ prominent. Or difficult.)

The door at the end of the corridor is the same as Shiro remembers – dark mahogany wood, with the Garrison logo etched in bronze. Matt enters first, trotting over to a desk far more classy and spacious than he’d had in technical services. He shuffles some things over, sets down his bag, and taps the intercom at the head of the table.

“Agent Shirogane reporting in, ma’am.”

There’s a pause, and a crackle of static, and then—

“Send him in.”

Matt nods, even if the speaker can’t see him. “Will do.” Then he looks up at Shiro, and his expression softens a little, less joking and more warm. He tilts his head at the second, larger mahogany door that leads to the inner office. “Go on.”

Shiro inhales, exhales. Nods. “Thanks Matt.”

His friend smiles at him. “Good luck, Shiro.”

 

The Commander’s Office also hasn’t changed much. The large, imposing rosewood desk still sits by the far right wall, with the two red guest chairs in front of it. The bookshelves still line the opposite wall, near the plush red couch. Even the drinks cabinet still stands in the corner. Shiro feels if he were to check, he would still find an Altea single-malt whiskey on one shelf, with two crystal tumblers.

The photographic print behind the desk – of the view from the roof of the Garrison, something Shiro would recognize, always – hasn’t changed, either. The biggest, possibly only, difference in the room is the person standing in front of it.

“Welcome back, Agent Shirogane,” Allura says with a sly smile.

“Ma’am,” Shiro answers, with a small bow.

They stand there a moment longer, looking at each other, before they both cave. Allura presses a hand to her mouth, covering her giggles, while Shiro simply grins shamelessly and crosses the room.

“I gotta say,” he admits, as he waits for her to take a seat before following, unbuttoning his charcoal grey suit jacket as he settles. “It suits you.”

Allura rolls her eyes, but she’s still holding in a smile. And Shiro’s only being honest – it does suit her. It had been a running joke, in their early Garrison days, that one day Allura would be Commander and Shiro would be the best 00-agent on her roster. Now here they are, although neither of them had expected Allura’s promotion to happen quite so soon. _Youngest Garrison Commander in history_ has a nice ring to it (and as a woman, too), but Shiro’s all too familiar with the pressure comes along – and the legacy that Allura’s chasing.

(Alfor had been Commander well before either of them had even been near the Garrison, highly respected and highly admired. His memory still lingers in the institution, still influences those who walk these halls. Shiro wants to believe Allura will be as good as her father, if not better.)

They settle into their roles. Allura flips through the file – Shiro’s file – face impassive as she goes through the details of his recovery, his assessments, his psychological profiles. Shiro tries not to hold his breath. He trusts Allura to give a fair judgement, and while he’ll take it gracefully enough if she declares he’s ineligible to return to active service—

“—you feeling?”

Shiro blinks. “Sorry?”

Allura cocks an eyebrow. “I asked, how are you feeling, Shiro?”

 _Ah._ Shiro clears his throat, trying to smile. “Fine, ma’am.”

Two eyebrows, this time. Shiro folds, huffing a breath through a sheepish smile. “I’m fine, Allura. Really. I’m ready.”

She levels him with a long, searching look, the kind Shiro is used to from Commanders – like she can read right through him. Whatever she sees – and whatever she’s read from his file – it’s enough for her to close the folder and nod.

“Pass your tests first, Agent Shirogane,” she reminds him pointedly, but there’s a smile in her expression. She sets the file down and waves him off. “Then we’ll talk.”

Shiro concedes with a nod, then pushes his chair back to stand, fastening his jacket as he goes. As he’s headed for the door, though, Allura calls his attention again. “Shiro.”

He turns. “Ma’am?”

This time, the look Allura gives him is more familiar, more warm. “I look forward to seeing you again.”

A corner of his mouth quirks up. Shiro gives her another, small bow, and then he leaves.

 

Matt sends him down to the armory.

“What, already?” Shiro jokes, even as his friend shoos him out the door.

“The new quartermaster is in charge of most of your testing,” Matt tells him. There’s an odd edge of amusement to his expression. “Be thankful he’s in the armory, at least; he’s been spending most of the time in transition down in the pit.”

“Wait – Dr. Holt retired?”

“Couple of months back.” Matt shrugs. “Pretty good time for Dad to step down, really, although Allura still has him on as a ‘consultant’.” He shakes his head, fond but rueful. “Pidge is R, now, while Hunk’s under Leif in R&D. Coran’s still Chief of Staff, but I don’t think that’ll ever change.”

Shiro has to snort at that. Still – “Pidge is R, huh.” He remembers Matt’s sister, from before the Kerberos mission, as a precocious young girl with a knack for hacking. Somehow he’s unsurprised she’s ended up in Q-branch.

“Yes, and I will tell her to make your life hell if you don’t move now.” Matt nudges him out into the corridor. “Shoo. And Shiro—”

He pauses. Shiro raises an eyebrow, but Matt just sighs and shakes his head. “Be careful with the quartermaster.”

Shiro waits a moment longer, but Matt doesn’t elaborate. So Shiro just offers an uncertain nod and heads back for the elevator.

 

It’s easy for him to find the armory, since it’s still located in the lowest floors, along with Q-branch and R&D. Shiro nods to a few familiar faces as he goes, before wandering into what had been – still is – his favorite department in the whole Garrison.

The armory – a catch-all storage for nearly all the Garrison’s agents’ equipment – had been play place, sanctuary, and battleground all at once, when he’d been an active agent. If Shiro closes his eyes, he can still picture Sam Holt, his old quartermaster, excitedly rambling about the latest development he’d made to the sighting on the scope of a rifle. He wanders past the shooting ranges with a wistful smile, headed for the main storage room and dispensary. Matt hadn’t told him who to look out for, but Shiro figures it can’t be too hard to find the new head of technical services and armory.

At first, the room seems quiet and empty. Shiro takes a moment to admire the selection of weaponry on the shelves along the walls, before a flash of color amid all the metal and grey catches his attention.

There’s a – Shiro’s not actually sure what to make of the man, really. He looks terribly young, with a riot of dark hair pulled into a messy ponytail at the nape of his neck. A rumpled, dark red button-down hangs open over a dark grey tee. Long legs in black, ripped jeans dangle off the stool. Unbelievably, the man is wearing red wedge sneakers. Here, in the hallowed halls of the Garrison, down in the armory.

 _An intern?_ Shiro wonders, trying to subtly get a better look. The man’s seated sideways to Shiro, so he can’t see a face, just glasses reflecting the light of a computer screen. There’s also a tablet to the side, and a selection of handguns scattered on the counter behind the laptop.

One of the Q-branch staff, then, probably. Shiro wanders over, intending to ask the man where his boss is so they can start his re-qualification.

Then the man seems to finally notice his presence, and looks up from the screen—

_Oh._

Shiro doesn’t believe in cheesy romance tropes unless he can use them to his advantage, but he’s fairly sure he could get lost in those eyes. Even from behind the glasses, they’re – _arresting_. Now that Shiro’s looking, the man himself is arresting; pretty in the way of ornate daggers, more than sharp enough to cut through to bone.

If someone like this works down in Q-branch, then Shiro thinks he’ll mind returning his (damaged, incomplete, broken) equipment post-mission a lot less.

“Hey,” he says, pulling up his most winning smile. “Agent Shirogane Takashi. I’m here to meet with the head of Q-branch.”

The man blinks at him for a few moments, then tips his head to side. “I know who you are, Agent Shirogane.”

(A clipped voice, like steel under paper. Shiro rather likes the way his name sounds from that mouth.)

“Please, it’s Shiro.” He walks over, still smiling, body language open. “Seems like your boss isn’t here yet, but we can talk while I’m waiting.”

Something flashes over the man’s face, too quick to be anything significant, before his expression settles on a mild neutral. “Talk.”

“Yeah. Just talk.” Shiro picks up one of the guns – an MFE 9mm, his old standard under Sam Holt – and runs his fingers over the stock. “Are you prepping these for the tests? I could demo them for you, if you need data. Maybe show you how to shoot a few loads.”

He regrets the words as soon as they’re out; they’re far more crass than he’d meant to be, though in his defense something about the man apparently ruins his brain-to-mouth filter. But he’s practiced enough in making anything sound smooth, so he passes it off with a roguish grin and a shrug.

The other man looks decidedly unimpressed. Shiro’s about to give a small, self-deprecating laugh and an apology when someone else enters the room.

“I have the files you were asking for, quartermaster—”

The woman pauses, flinching at the sight of Shiro just as her words get through Shiro’s brain. He freezes, just as the man to his left glances around and reaches out.

“Thanks, Leif, I appreciate it.”

_Quartermaster._

Shiro carefully lowers the gun back to the table and looks over the arresting, unassuming man who absently places a folder off to the side while he taps at something on his tablet. The man can’t be more than 23, can scarcely be out of his studies. He’s wearing _red wedge sneakers._ Between the shock and the embarrassment, Shiro feels he might be forgiven for the next thing out of his mouth.

“ _You’re_ my quartermaster? You look like a grad student.”

The man – quartermaster, _Q,_ this is the new Q – glances up at him placidly. “I am. And I wasn’t aware that appearance determined capability.”

“Age does beget experience, though.”

Q raises an eyebrow. “Age doesn’t guarantee efficiency.”

“And youth doesn’t guarantee innovation.” Shiro frowns. “I apologize for my crass comment – that was unprofessional of me. But you’re also new to this job, so I think I’m allowed to be uncertain.”

“And I think I’m allowed a fair chance to prove I deserve to be here.” The quartermaster levels Shiro with a deadpan look as he snaps his laptop shut. Shiro has half a mind to retort, but then Q’s words sink in and he closes his mouth in chagrin.

“You’re right,” he says with a sigh, offering a sheepish smile. “Sorry. Kind of defensive of me.”

Q blinks at him a moment, caught off-guard, before he flicks his gaze away and coughs quietly. “Yeah, well.” A corner of his mouth quirks up. “You wouldn’t be the first.”

Shiro purses his lips at that, frowning again as he watches the quartermaster pack up his things and put away the guns. He’s personally used to being judged at first glance – being a Double-0 agent of the Garrison means his reputation precedes him, and rumors don’t always lend good images. He also knows those judgments aren’t always positive – sometimes even unwarranted – so he understands where Keith’s coming from.

Plus, this is a man whom Shiro will be spending plenty of time with, who’ll be supervising his missions and dispensing his equipment. He figures they should at least be able to get along.

“Perhaps we should start over, then.” Shiro offers a warmer smile with his hand. “Agent Shirogane Takashi, but everyone calls me Shiro.”

“I’m aware, Agent Shirogane.” The smile that the quartermaster offers is smaller, but there’s amusement tucked in the corner of his mouth. “It’s been interesting to meet you in person. I’m your new quartermaster, but you can call me Keith.”

  


Keith puts Shiro through a ridiculous – in his opinion, at least – number of re-qualification tests, including but not limited to: small firearms shooting, seven different physicals, a sparring session, and a psychological examination. The quartermaster is a quiet, unobtrusive presence throughout the tests, always seemingly more focused on his laptop and data than on Shiro himself. Still, Shiro finds himself putting in extra effort, although he tells himself it’s just to ensure there are no doubts over his successful re-qualification.

He tries his best not to glance too often at long legs in distressed jeans, and dark hair framing high cheekbones.

He succeeds, mostly.

 

(Dr. Veronica McClain is both a bane and a favorite to most agents in the Garrison. She takes her seat across Shiro with a pleasant smile, although Shiro’s long known her to be bitingly sarcastic and unafraid to stand up to even the most intimidating Double-O agents. Shiro smiles back politely.

“Good afternoon, Agent Shirogane. We’re going to start with a simple word association game for this session. I tell you a word, you tell me the first thing that comes to mind.”

“Sounds good.”

“Excellent. First, then: day.”

“Night.”

“Sky.”

“Blue.”

“Scar.”

A corner of his mouth quirks up. “Badass.”)

 

The shooting test is a small exercise in self-reflection. Shiro hasn’t held a gun since the Kerberos mission; the model given to him now is different, no longer the MFE 9mm modified by Dr. Holt. The Q-Branch staff tells Shiro it’s a _Luxite PPK_.380, “the new standard weapon for field agents, sir”. Shiro looks it over, quietly admiring the sleek design and customized grip.

“Palm-print reader,” says a slightly amused voice nearby. When Shiro looks up and around, Keith is perched on a stool a few feet away, setting up his laptop on the other end of the counter. At his questioning look, Keith nods at the gun. “The grip’s been customized with a sensor encoded to your palm print. It means this gun will only fire for you or me.”

Shiro quirks an eyebrow. “ _You_ or me?”

There’s the smallest hint of a self-satisfied smile tucked in the corner of Keith’s mouth as he reaches over, plucking the gun out of Keith’s hands. Calloused fingers curl around the grip, and three lights immediately wink green – one each in succession, down by the magazine. He raises his arm, sighting down the line of it, turning the gun slightly to the side. Then with a small nod, he flips the gun in his grip and hands it butt-first back to Shiro.

“Come on. Let’s get this done with.”

Shiro takes the weapon back, fitting it to his own palm. The green lights wink on again, and he doesn’t hold back a small huff of laughter.

“Yes, sir.”

 

At the end of it, Shiro’s only mildly reluctant to admit that the gun does fire like a dream, and that the palm-print reader really is a nifty modification. He goes through several magazines before Keith declares he’s satisfied with the metrics, nodding at his laptop screen. Shiro lowers the gun and slides off the ear protectors, rolling the tension from his shoulders.

On the other side of the range, the circular target of concentric rings is riddled with holes, almost all of them near the bulls-eye. Almost.

“Next test,” the quartermaster says, expression impassive. Meanwhile, Shiro allows himself a tiny satisfied curl of lips as he follows Keith out of the room.

 

(“Partner.”

 _Liability._ “Pointless.”

“Mission.”

“Success.”

“Garrison.”

“Work.”

“Home.”

 _Gone._ “Next.”)

 

The physical tests push Shiro to his limit, although he’d never admit it out loud. Keith and the medical staff make him run the gauntlet – pull-ups, push-ups, planks, circuits, treadmill, punching bag, even across-the-room sprints. As an upside, he gets to wear sweatpants and a tight grey tank top, which he hopes – at the back of his mind – might have _some_ effect on Keith. Still, he probably doesn’t make much of a sight, hunched over and panting, hands on his knees after finishing his fifth lap around the training track.

“Is all of this absolutely necessary?” he asks, breathless, laugh slightly wheezy. (He might not be imagining the way Keith’s eyes flick over as he pushes his fingers through his hair, getting it out of his eyes.)

One of the medical staff frowns at him, affronted. “The physical tests are designed to measure—”

“Pull-up bar, please, agent.” Keith cuts in with a roll of his eyes, leaning over to pick up one of the sheets the other physicians have been scribbling in. He turns back to type something out on his laptop.

Shiro stares at him for a few moments, then at the ceiling. He’s beginning to think the man is _enjoying_ giving Shiro a hard time. Then he turns, retrieves his Garrison-provided water bottle to take a long swig before walking over to one of the pull-up bars mounted on the wall.

“How many should I do?” he asks, already knowing and dreading the answer.

He doesn’t have to turn to see the flicker of smugness undoubtedly crossing the quartermaster’s face; he can hear it in Keith’s voice, the little shit.

“As many as it takes.”

 

(“Gun.”

“Fire.”

“Enemy.”

“Anywhere.”

“Betrayal.”

“Death.”)

 

Shiro isn’t surprised to see Kinkade and a few other agents in the sparring room when he enters, shuffling in after the quartermaster and the other staff. Kinkade’s one of the agents he likes better – smart, strong, with good instincts and an unassuming attitude. He’s also one of the better hand-to-hand combatants, which is probably why he’s standing on the other side of the mat, grinning at Shiro.

“Good to see you again, Shirogane,” Kinkade calls, and Shiro flicks him a teasing salute.

“Go easy on me, would you, Kinkade?” he says, and the other agents laugh.

“No way,” Rizavi says, sticking her tongue out. “I’ve got money on him that he’ll absolutely kick your ass.”

“ _Hey._ ”

“No hard feelings, Shiro.”

“ _Agents._ ” Keith’s voice is quiet, measured as he speaks up, chiding them all as he goes to plug his laptop over to the side. To Shiro’s surprise, the quartermaster then simply folds down to sit cross-legged on the floor, laptop balanced on his thighs. The other agents also ease off, muttering _sorry Keith_ ’s and offering the man a few sheepish grins. The answering smile is exasperated but amused.

Well. Shiro certainly hadn’t expected that.

“First to four or to submission,” Kinkade says, motioning Shiro over. Standard sparring protocol among the Double-0 agents. Shiro stretches his shoulders and rolls his neck, stepping to the mat.

“No hard feelings,” he says, and then charges forward.

 

Shiro loses the match, although the score line at least is respectable. He gets Kinkade twice – once with an unexpected swipe at the man’s knees, bringing him down so Shiro can tap him on the throat; then again when he ducks Kinkade’s incoming right jab and swings a leg up to land squarely in the other agent’s solar plexus. But Kinkade then responds with a series of well-placed hits that force Shiro on the defensive, ending with a quick turn and an elbow to Shiro’s spine.

Shiro drops to the floor, rolling to flop onto his back. “Damnit,” he huffs at the ceiling.

A dark hand enters his vision, followed by Kinkade’s grinning face. “Good enough,” he says, and Shiro laughs.

“You’ve gotten better,” he admits, reaching up and grasping Kinkade’s arm so he can get up.

“Not so bad yourself,” Kinkade replies dryly, and Shiro chuckles again.

“Are we good here?” he asks, turning to where the quartermaster still sits on the floor, tapping away at his laptop. The sensory reader patch on Shiro’s neck is starting to irritate his skin, and he’d really like to take it off and have a shower. But he can’t leave until Keith clears him from testing.

There’s a lull while Keith reviews the data he has on his laptop, and Shiro catches his breath. Then the quartermaster leans over the unplug his laptop, then shuts the lid, nodding.

“We’re good,” he confirms, starting to pack up.

Shiro waits a moment, frowning, then pipes up. “What should I…?”

“You can go.” Keith’s expression is wry as he shoulders his messenger bag. “Allura will call you in if we need you.”

“So I can just… go?”

“If you want.” The quartermaster pauses by the door, head cocked to the side. “Have a good day, Agent Shirogane.”

The door is already closed by the time Shiro shakes his head, smiling in disbelief.

“I said it’s Shiro.”

 

(“Pieira.”

“Home.”

“Daizal.”

“No.”

“Kerberos.”

A pause.

Again: “Kerberos.”

A breath.

“Done.”)

  
Allura doesn’t call him back right away. Instead, Shiro gets three days of twiddling his thumbs and waiting around in his apartment before Matt finally rings him and tells him to come in. He dresses in his favorite suit – a casual one, smart and slate grey, fitted to the contours of his body – and a dark blue tie. The trip back to the Garrison is short; still, Shiro takes an extra moment standing outside the building to take a deep breath.

Then he enters, heading directly for the Commander’s Office.

Matt is in the receiving room when Shiro arrives, although his friend’s expression doesn’t give anything away as he buzzes Shiro into Allura’s office. The Commander herself is similarly cryptic; in a slightly disorienting sense of deja vu, Allura’s seated at her desk, browsing a file – Shiro’s file. Shiro swallows down his apprehension and walks over, taking a seat on the other side of the desk.

It’s another few moments before Allura speaks, although she still doesn’t look up.

“I heard you made quite the first impression on the quartermaster.” Both Allura’s tone and expression are carefully bland, but Shiro hears the amusement and reprimand all the same. He grimaces, shifting in his chair.

“In my defense, I didn’t actually know he was quartermaster,” he points out, although it’s a poor defense. He doesn’t really have an excuse for his lack of a filter in the moment, although he hopes it didn’t affect his assessment. That wouldn’t be fair.

“I’m sure that makes no difference,” Allura tells him, finally closing the folder and laying it out on her desk. Shiro fights the urge to reach out and open it. Instead, he purses his lips and tries not to feel too petulant.

“It shouldn’t affect my—”

“Relax, Shiro.” This time, Allura allows herself a small, affectionate smile, and the words fade on Shiro’s tongue in a wave of relief and apprehension. He leans back and nods; Allura’s smile widens. “I dare say he’s more objective than that.”

Shiro opens his mouth, then closes it, uncertain of how to put what he feels into words. Still, some of it must show on his face, because Allura’s smile softens and she stands up, reaching out a hand.

“Welcome back to the Garrison, Agent 007.”

 

What follows is a whirlwind of paperwork, security clearances, and more paperwork. If there’s anything Shiro would admit to openly disliking at the Garrison, it would be the bureaucracy that weighs down everything from equipment distribution to department budgets. His only consolation is that Matt looks just as pissy as he feels, making a face every time he has to deal with yet another stack of paper.

“You were _already_ an agent,” his friend whines, slumping forward on his desk. “We shouldn’t be making this so _hard.”_

“And yet here we are,” Shiro mutters, handing over a coffee. Matt grabs it and chugs half of it in one go. Shiro raises his eyebrows, then surreptitiously places the other coffee – _his_ coffee, technically – on the desk as well.

“Be happy I like you,” Matt grumbles, but he pulls the other cup closer, too.

Several days, a seemingly-interminable amount of paperwork, and a few more evaluations later, and Shiro accepts his new Garrison identification from Allura with a grin. She rolls her eyes, but can’t hide how pleased she is all the same.

“Shoo,” she says, waving him off. “We’ll call you in when you have a mission.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Shiro replies, and laughs as she glares him out of the room.

 

It’s another few days before he finally gets assigned a mission, days which he spends training and re-familiarizing himself with the Garrison – and learning all the ways its changed. There are new faces among the agents – a skinny guy named Lance with a good eye for long-range shots; a slightly-uptight man named James who’s surprisingly handy in a car chase or a knife fight. Some of the departments have been rearranged; plenty of the decor has been replaced. Almost all the security has been updated, and he can hazard a guess at whose handiwork it is.

For all Shiro’s wandering the Garrison halls like an impatient specter, he sees precious little of the enigmatic quartermaster. In fact, he’s only seen Keith once since his evaluation tests, and that had been in the corridor outside the administrative office. The quartermaster had been walking up from the elevator when Shiro had exited the door, and he’d blinked briefly in surprise before settling on a slightly amused expression.

“Quartermaster,” Shiro had said, inclining his head and reaching back to hold the door open behind him.

“Agent,” Keith had replied, and then slipped past him without another word.

Still, Shiro knows he’ll see Keith again soon enough – the quartermaster has to outfit him for his missions, after all, and depending on the mission objectives and priority level, Keith might also be the voice in his ear, guiding him as he navigates whatever foreign city he’s sent to next. He’s – _drawn_ to Keith, for some peculiar reason, to those stunning eyes and the sharp clip of his voice. And perhaps it’s inadvisable to be attracted to his own quartermaster, but Shiro’s entire Garrison career is predicated on doing inadvisable and often dangerous things.

He gets to see Keith again when Allura finally hands him his first assignment since coming back. Mission brief in hand, Shiro heads down to the armory again, although this time he knows who to look for. Keith’s seated again at one of the counters, long legs in skinny jeans dangling off the stool, brow lightly furrowed as he reads a file spread out on the surface.

“Agent Shirogane, reporting for equipment,” Shiro says as he makes his way over, grinning.

“I know.” The way Keith looks puts Shiro off, just a little. He’s not expecting warmth from someone who’s technically – by Garrison rank, at least – his superior, but there’s something almost _disapproving_ in Keith’s expression that sets Shiro on the defensive.

“Is something wrong?” he asks, slowing to a stop on the other side of the counter.

Keith makes a non-committal noise as he closes the file on the counter – _Shiro’s_ file, he realizes, he’d caught a glimpse of the name on the top. Those are Shiro’s assessments, the ones Keith himself helped collect data for; he’d _seen_ how Shiro had performed. The agent thinks back to Allura’s pointed remark about the quartermaster, back when she’d first let him know he could return to active service.

Something cold settles in Shiro’s chest. His shoulders go tight.

“You don’t think I’m good enough to come back,” he says point-blank, glancing sidewise at Keith. It’s a bitter assessment, but he also sees where Keith comes from. It’s understandably difficult for a quartermaster – _the_ quartermaster, the head of the whole armory and technical services – to trust in an older, damaged agent. But _damn,_ Shiro’s still qualified at his job, and he deserves a fair chance at returning to it. Keith had said the same thing about himself. “If this is about the first time we met—”

Keith presses his lips together, contemplative. “I think you’re a risk,” he finally answers. “I think you’re stubborn and put too much stock in _how_ you get results. I’ve read your mission files, your history – you weren’t meant to be on the Kerberos mission. You wouldn’t have been, if my predecessor hadn’t backed you up.”

Shiro’s eyes narrow. “I was perfectly qualified for that mission. I was the _best_ agent for it.”

Keith’s lips quirk up. “Just because someone is qualified doesn’t mean they’re a good fit.” There’s something in his expression, then – a there-and-gone-again that Shiro can’t catch, can’t parse. “Besides, you didn’t think I was qualified for quartermaster when we first met.”

“That’s different,” Shiro hedges, although he feels the heat rise in his cheeks.

Keith gives him a pointed look, sharp and cutting, like he sees right through Shiro (and he probably does). Then shakes his head, sighing. “It really isn’t.” Still, his expression softens – or at least, goes less sharp at the edges. “But don’t worry. My job is all about measuring risks. I may be young, but I’m not an idiot, Agent Shirogane.”

At that, the quartermaster slides over the small case that’s become customary for equipment dispensation since he’d taken over the post. Shiro knows without looking that it contains one standard Luxite PPK .380 and the cleverly designed comms that Keith has created alongside Pidge. He looks from the case to Keith, who’s already turning away to flip through some files, probably looking for the papers for whatever identity Shiro’s going to adopt this time.

“That’s it?” he asks, incredulously, and then winces. He hadn’t meant for that to come out as clumsy as it did.

In response, Keith holds out a passport with a plane ticket and some folded papers inserted. There’s amusement tucked in the corner of his mouth. “That’s it.” One shoulder lifts in a shrug. “I said you weren’t meant to be on the Kerberos mission. I didn’t say I agreed.”

Shiro blinks at Keith, grasp loose around his papers. Keith huffs and presses them into his hand, then waves him off. “Dismissed, Agent Shirogane.”

There’s another moment’s pause, then Shiro feels himself smiling in response. “It’s Shiro.”

“I said dismissed.”

Shiro chuckles, gives a small bow, and leaves.

 

(When he’s alone in his hotel room, though; when he turns the Luxite PPK over in his hands and examines it – the biometric reader in the grip, the tiny TS engraved on the side – Shiro spares a thought for stunning eyes and lithe fingers. Keith is so unlike his previous quartermaster – and really, so unlike the staff that Shiro’s used to seeing in and around technical services and armory, or anywhere else in the Garrison. He wonders what Keith makes of him, the prodigal agent come back from the half-dead. He wonders what else Keith thinks of his missions, his methods, his file, his return. He wonders what Keith looks like when he laughs.

Shiro traces the tiny comms with a finger. He knows Keith won’t be the voice in his ear when he proceeds on his mission – not enough risk to warrant the quartermaster himself supervising. But he remembers the way that clipped voice had shaped his name, and he imagines, for a moment.

Then he puts his equipment away, and gets ready to sleep.)

 

Back when Matt had still been with technical services, he’d complained that most of Shiro’s missions had a tendency to go tits-up, no matter how simple the original parameters appeared. Shiro had pointed out that it was rarely his fault, and he’d always done his best to adapt to the situation. His mission success rate spoke for itself.

It’s not entirely surprising, then, that even his first mission back finds Shiro in deeper shit than expected.

What was meant to be a straightforward retrieval has, somehow, turned into a cross-country chase to take back a collection of drives containing stolen data and dismantle the organization that’s appropriated them. Shiro’s original mark is dead, his contact has fled into hiding, and the drives have changed hands three different times. He’s also changed handlers twice; the first one was either scared off or dismissed after he’d lost his target the first time due to incomplete and incorrect information. He’s in Arusia now, hoping to finally retrieve the drives (or destroy them; at this point, he’s not too picky) and eliminate the people who took them in the first place.

His comms blinks red at him, alerting him that he’s receiving a transmission. Shiro twists it into his ear as he buttons up his shirt. “Receiving.”

“Agent Shirogane,” comes a familiar, clipped voice, and Shiro’s fingers falter.

“Why, quartermaster,” he says in a slow, smug drawl, once he’s recovered himself. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

There’s a pointed pause, then Keith resumes speaking. “I’m handling the remainder of your mission. It’s been raised to a Priority One, now. Are you ready to leave?”

Shiro blinks, then starts getting dressed faster. If Allura’s raised this to Priority One, things must be serious – all the more since Keith’s handling him personally. He tucks the Luxite PPK into its shoulder holster, shrugs on his jacket, and checks everything over.

“Ready,” he states, and then smiles.

He leaves the hotel to Keith’s voice in his ear, talking him through the new objectives as Shiro steps out into the late morning sun.

 

Four hours later, Shiro quietly knocks out a guard and slips through the rear gate of a factory complex in some isolated area in fuck-knows, Arusia. Over the comms, Keith makes an exasperated noise.

“I could have told you when the next rotation of the guards is,” the quartermaster mutters, annoyed.

“One less person to come after me,” he replies, grinning, and then kicks a door open. He trusts Keith to take out the alarm system, just as he trusts Keith to help him make his way through the building, the quartermaster’s calm voice helping him navigate the maze of corridors to the room he wants.

It’s surprisingly easy, trusting Keith. His life is in the hands of a young man standing at a computer system across the continent, and when Keith says turn left, Shiro goes left.

There’s another guard at the end of the corridor. Shiro takes a chance, firing a single shot off the Luxite PPK straight through the man’s head. The gun really does handle beautifully.

“Down the stairs to the right, Agent,” Keith says, unfazed, and Shiro’s grin widens.

He goes right, trusting the voice in his ear. Where Keith leads, he follows.

 

There is nothing gentle about Shiro when he’s at his weapons-best, when he is weapon himself, sharp and deadly as any knife he’s ever had to wield. Shiro flirting with men and women for a mission, all roguish smile and charm, is the same as Shiro in the middle of a crossfire as he shoots without a second’s hesitation. He thinks fast, moves faster, gets the better of most things in his way. He crashes through like a wave, leaving destruction in his wake. Everything is calculated, everything is combat. Everything is something to win.

There is nothing gentle about Keith even as he stands in the middle of Q-branch, fingers flying over a keyboard and systems bending to his will. He thinks and he acts and hundreds of kilometers away – a power plant explodes, a prison’s electric system short-circuits, a corporation’s data is entirely corrupted. Keith in himself is a force of nature, a tempest, an undertow that grasps and pulls down to drowning. He takes his agents’ lives in his hands and says _you will not die, not today._

Shiro runs for his life out of a factory in Arusia. Keith carefully, carefully controls a series of explosions in front of his agent, detonating forward, always forward.

“Down and under, Agent Shirogane,” he says dryly, hitting the last of the commands. In another country, Shiro obediently, trustingly rolls underneath a descending slab of titanium alloy and escapes as the factory burns behind him. Keith gives a satisfied smile, and takes a sip of coffee.

“I thought I said,” Shiro says, as he shoots another man down, “to call me Shiro.”

Wave and undertow. Perhaps they might work well together, after all.

 

(In another country, Shiro thinks about the way Keith’s galaxy-bright eyes can cut to bone, and knows: this man could be very bad for him.)

 

When Shiro returns to the Garrison, it’s late in the evening and he’s fresh off his return flight. Technically, he doesn’t have to report in until tomorrow morning, but he’s still too keyed up, anyway, and there’s someone he wants to see. Instead of heading upstairs, since Allura will likely be gone for the night, Shiro takes the elevator down to the lower levels and heads right to Q-branch.

The department is unsurprisingly quiet, with half the lights turned off. There are a few techs at their desks, and the map displaying Rizavi’s tracker is up on one of the monitors. Shiro bypasses all of them and heads for the stairs at the far side of the room, where a set of darkened glass panels cover the wall.

Blessedly, the quartermaster’s office is unlocked. Shiro eases the door open gently, peering inside. Just like Q-branch, the room is dimly lit – just a desk light, and a series of low lights on the other side of the room. There’s no Keith at the desk, which _is_ a surprise, but then Shiro hears a long-suffering sigh.

“I already had to adjust a couple of government satellites for you,” Keith grumbles from where he’s sprawled out on a couch to the side, arm thrown over his eyes. “Am I not allowed to have a nap, too?”

“Didn't you read the fine print of your contract?” Shiro quips, slipping into the room and shutting the door. “Pretty sure it’s in writing not to expect to sleep much.”

“Well fuck me.” Keith laughs softly, slightly hoarse. Shiro rather wants to bottle the sound and keep it. The quartermaster sits up and scrubs at his face, yawning. “I’m guessing you didn’t bring back any of your equipment intact.”

Grinning, Shiro reaches into his jacket – slightly tattered and torn in three different places – and pulls the Luxite PPK out of his shoulder holster. The barrel is scratched in several places, and the magazine is completely gone. He doesn’t remember when or where he’d lost his comms, just that they’re lost.

Keith looks at him for a long moment, then groans.

“The palm-print reader worked perfectly, at least,” Shiro offers, walking over to set the gun on Keith’s desk.

“Just _two,_ ” Keith mutters, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I sent you out with just _two_ pieces of equipment.”

“I think you overestimate your agents,” Shiro replies, and ducks as the other man chucks a crumpled piece of paper at him.

“Dismissed, Agent Shirogane,” Keith says, sighing again and getting up from the couch.

Shiro’s mouth quirks. “I thought I said to call me Shiro.”

“Good _night._ ”

 

Q-branch is still mostly empty and half-dark when Shiro exits the quartermaster’s office. He makes his way through the maze of desks, smile still on his face. He’ll report in properly to debrief tomorrow, including his customary evasion of Medical and any post-mission psychological assessment. Hopefully Allura won’t be _too_ pissed about, well… everything.

For now, though, he thinks back to Keith, to the voice in his ear, unflappable and precise even as Shiro had run from a fistfight turned gunfight turned series of explosions. This not-quite-new quartermaster with intriguing eyes and an immutable composure behind a deceptive appearance, like steel under paper. Keith and his quiet competence, the way he doesn’t back down no matter the situation.

The Garrison may be much changed in the year Shiro’s been gone, but he finds he doesn’t mind as badly. Not when he gets Keith.

The door to Q-branch closes behind Shiro as he makes his way back up to the lobby to leave for the night.

Hopefully, he’ll get to see Keith again in the morning.

**Author's Note:**

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> 
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